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Chapter 5: Rank Two

Oriné ‘Fulsamee inhaled deeply, allowing the fumes of the incense to fill his lungs. He kneeled before the altar at the Temple, one of the smaller, private ones for personal communion with the Gods. The smoke made his eyelids heavy and he allowed them to fall shut: elimination of the visual world helped the experience.

A little more than a year he had been here at Institution, long enough for his squad to be promoted to Rank Two. It had happened, literally, overnight roughly a month ago; when they awoke they were directed to more difficult training sessions and more intense studies. They were quizzed more, tested more, tried more; battles were no longer conducted within the squad but always against other squads, spot-examinations by the Lesser Prophets done in groups, knowledge expected to be recalled immediately and without pause.

The Elite Junior sighed out the smoke. It was incredibly difficult, but these meditation sessions helped him relax. The heaviness of the fumes filled his being and weighed him down physically yet allowed his mind to soar. It was as if he departed this plane entirely and was given his first view of the Great Journey; truly a worthy experience. He allowed his eyelids to sag closed and the smoke to take him away.

A chime rang in his ear, and he casually allowed his mind to pull itself away from the relaxing environment of the temple. He reached a hand up and brushed a finger over one of the acknowledgement pads, allowing the transmission through: “Elite Junior Oriné ‘Fulsamee,” it began. Oriné moved his mandibles in a perfect mimicry of the speech, “First Battalion, Reverent Company, Squadron Twenty-two; your squadron will be conducting a combat exercise in the Hall of Glory shortly.”

He rose off his knees, rotating the joints to make sure he hadn’t accidentally knotted a muscle. Once he was content he strode out of the temple and into the courtyard. Decorative vegetation had been planted around, carefully tended to so the path was clear but at a whim he could reach out and pick a blossom from a bush. He refrained, however, and contented himself just finding the gravity lift. As he approached he brought up his wrist and programmed his destination before he stepped into the shaft of light; once before he had forgotten this crucial step, and the resulting collision had put himself and the unfortunate passer-by in the infirmary for a week.

The gravity lift deposited him on the proper floor and he maneuvered his way to the Hall of Glory. There were sixteen such halls in these levels, each supporting a massive combat arena. When he had been Rank Three, small rooms were given to the cadets in order to conduct exercises within their own squad; now much larger ones were needed for the much larger battles that took place.

Stepping into the Hall, Oriné recalled immediately that Glory was for forest terrain battles. The trees towered over a floor covered in dead and decaying plant life from which smaller shrubs grew. The battle hadn’t started yet, so he traipsed through the arena and searched for his squadron.

They had collected themselves in the center clearing, twenty-five already there. Oriné stood and conversed in low tones with them until the remainder arrived, followed by an Elite Major. The Sangheili present dimly remembered him from their first day.

“Today’s exercise is of the greatest importance,” the Major said to the assembled cadets. “You will prove your worth working with the other races; scattered throughout this forest are twenty Grunt clutches and two Hunter pairs. If you recover them, you may lead them; if your opponents recover them, they shall belong to them.” There was a sense of conviction behind the Major’s words, one that betrayed a deeper meaning; Oriné couldn’t decipher the message behind it.

He reviewed their armaments next: standard training rifles and pistols, as well as training grenades. The firearms were familiar by now, Oriné having toted them through countless training exercises and learned all their quirks. He had even trained with their genuine counterparts at the firing range. However, the grenades were something he rarely used. They could stick to opponents, but Oriné had hardly utilized them: they made him uneasy. On the battlefield, if one held on to a grenade for too long it would fuse to one’s hand and detonate. He would rather never touch them.

The Major exited the arena, and shortly thereafter the exercise began. Olah ‘Seroumee acted quickly, not wishing to fall behind their opponents, whoever they might be. “First and fourth lances, I want you to move forward until you come into contact with the enemy, and from there establish our front line.” Those Elites saluted and took off at a brisk jog towards the other side of the Hall where their opponents would have started. “Second lance, you are to move backwards and secure our rear and flanks. See if perhaps the good Major left a few tricks for us to take advantage of.” They disappeared as well. “Fifth lance, sweep through our territories and look for those Grunt clutches and Hunter pairs. We’ll need their assistance.”

Only the third lance, of which Oriné was a part, was left behind. “What of us, Olah?” he asked. The squadron leader glanced back at him.

“We shall make a pre-emptive strike against our opponents, find out what we are facing,” he replied, drawing his rifle. “We will push past the first and fourth lances and conduct reconnaissance.” The others all nodded and took up their own weapons, sprinting forward as their commander did so. They nimbly bounded between the trunks of the trees, signaling to the other lances as they passed, and went onward. Quickly, however, they switched tactics and favored silence over speed; they did not know when they would encounter their enemy. They crouched low to the ground, their green armor giving them a slight semblance of camouflage in the foliage of the artificial forest. When it came time for them to actually be in battle against the humans, their armor would have active camouflage units in them. Turning them on would deactivate their shields (which they would have as well) but would lend them an extra air of stealth.

After what seemed like a full day of sneaking they heard sounds up ahead. All ten Elites froze; Olah waved Oriné and another forward. “Scout them and see what resources they have,” he whispered to them. They nodded and continued forward. Reaching up and carefully parting the branches of a bush the pair found themselves gazing directly into the face of their enemy. It was simian with massive tusks, a heavy brow, and small eyes that glared at them.

For a moment they stared dumbfounded at each other, but then the Brute smiled at them. “Have you forgotten how to scream, hatchling?” it chided. In response, Oriné smoothly raised his rifle and held down the trigger. The weapon bucked and sounded, but no plasma genuinely burst forth; the Brute, however, spasmed and fell back, his training harness detecting the impacts and delivering the proper neural response. He did not even cry out as he tumbled back and landed in the dirt. As his form fell away, however, the pair could see that several of the beast’s comrades had been watching their scout.

“Fire!” one of the Jiralhanae warriors cried, and they all raised their own training rifles. Oriné pushed his companion down and then went prone himself; the sound of return fire filled his ears, but his armor wasn’t registering any hits.

“Olah!” he called back, raising his head enough to be able to turn his neck. “We’ve found them! They’re Brutes!” He could not hear a response, but from the distant shouts from the enemy they had decided to close the distance. Oriné and his companion quickly rose and dashed back to where Olah was still waiting.

The squadron commander glanced them over. “Any damage?”

“We took out one of them, but the rest are still there and they’re coming.”

“Lay a trap!” Olah called out, motioning for all the Elites to go prone in the low shrubs. “Hold until they approach and then use grenades to thin their ranks. Throw them high so the trajectory will make them think we’re attacking from elsewhere.” They quickly set about setting up the trap, burying themselves as much as they could in the low brush and hoping their armor color would assist their camouflage attempts. In their hearts the Elites felt no honor in this action, in not meeting their opponent head-on; however, in their minds they knew this was much wiser.

Heavy footfalls, gunfire, and shouting voices heralded their opponents’ arrival. The brush tore away as several Jiralhanae rushed through and bounded at them; none seemed to notice the warriors lying in wait. As their enemies closed the distance, the Elites unhooked grenades from their belts, gave them a squeeze, and sent them flying. The orbs pulsed blue and landed on or among the opposing forces, flaring brilliant sapphire as they “detonated” and almost all of the Brutes fell to the ground, twitching or completely still. The few that survived were quickly gunned down as Sangheili leaped up from cover.

Oriné and Olah inspected the fallen Brutes, policing rifles and grenades. “Everyone takes a spare,” the commander ordered. “We don’t know if we should need them soon.” As they staked out their claims, as well as trophies from the combat, Olah raised a hand to his helmet and activated the team radio line.

“Attention all lances,” he said firmly, “we have identified our opponents as the Jiralhanae. Use caution when engaging. Fifth lance, what news of our allies?”

“Affirmative,” one of the Elites replied. “We have located two Grunt clutches, and they are leading us to where they believe a Hunter pair to be. According to them, there are a total of two pairs and three clutches.”

“Seize that pair and we’ll have the advantage we need in order to end this quickly,” Olah said, and then turned his attention back to his own lance. “We will fall back to where first and fourth lances are forming the front line and hold there. Once we get reinforced by the other lances and our new allies, we will press forward and wipe out these Brutes.

“No ape shall stand in a Sangheili’s way.”

——

Bruised, Yarna ‘Orgalmee eased himself onto the bench in the mess hall area. Rtas ‘Vadumee, sitting across from him, looked up and cocked his head quizzically. The other cadet could only smile sheepishly.

“We had our first engagement with the Jiralhanae today,” he said.

Rtas guffawed, setting his plate of kashalai down. “Ah yes, my squadron had its own encounter a week ago. Fierce warriors; not very bright, but determined.”

Yarna looked at his own food: a “fruit platter,” though the term seemed inaccurate. “Be careful, friend, you almost sound like you respect them.”

“The day a walking carpet can best a Sangheili is the day I walk out of the Covenant,” he replied, once again taking up his meal. He titled his head back and poured the roasted, honeyed worms down his gullet. “How did you fare?” The question thankfully came after he finished.

“As a unit, we did very well. We made the first move and were able to secure two Grunt clutches and the Hunter pair. The Brutes didn’t manage to find any Grunts until far too late.”

“And you personally?”

Yarna picked up a piece of fruit and gave it a tentative sniff. “I was killed towards the end. I became too bold and tried to lead a few Grunts in a charge at what I thought was a weakened part of their line. They struck me with a grenade and killed my entire group.” He tore off a bit and ate it with caution. “One of the Hunters avenged me, though.”

Rtas had another go at his kashalai. “They are noble and honorable... though I would never wish to spend time alone with one.”

Yarna nodded, and then glanced around, having just noticed something for the first time. Present in the mess hall were many Sangheili, Unggoy, and Jiralhanae, but... “Why do the Lekgolo not eat with us?”

His companion frowned at him. “The chefs do not cater to their preferred nourishment.”

“What, they cannot catch it?”

“No. The Lekgolo do not eat meat.”

Yarna blanched; Rtas took amusement at the other’s ignorance. “You know they are a colony of eels, correct? Good. Now these eels are herbivores, and even though they have bonded together to create a humanoid form, they still have the needs of individuals. To eat, they dispose of their armor and slither along the grass in the Temple areas, like so.” He put his palm half a centimeter over the surface of the table and moved it back and forth to emphasize his point. “When they do this, the eels are grazing on the grass. They rotate as they do this so all eels on the surface have the opportunity to eat; eels in the middle also push their way to the outside for nourishment.” He smiled at some memory. “The grazing of Lekgolo is truly an impressive sight; perhaps some day you will be able to witness it yourself.”

“Oh,” Yarna said, and trailed off. He glared at his food; he suspected it was tainted. “I will say this, though; their teamwork is impeccable. Though the death of a Bond Brother would be troubling, as long as both are alive I see no stopping the carnage.” Another thought stopped his praise. “Tell me: do they mate?”

“Of course.”

“Oh. I have never seen a Lekgolo female.”

“There are none. The Lekgolo are hermaphroditic, their Bond Brothers essentially becoming their mates and... where are you going?”

That was too much. Yarna excused himself and tossed his food in a trash container, plate and all.

——

Yarna settled himself onto his knees in the lecture room. Magister ‘Alsakee strode to the front, cleared his throat, and began warming up the hologram projector.

“Today,” he started, fiddling with the controls, “we discuss the mating habits of the Unggoy, Yanme’e, and Lekgolo.”

Suddenly Yarna wished the Brute had killed him for real.

——

Several Elite Juniors stood at fast attention in the massive hallway just outside one of the shuttle bays. It was incredibly early, Oriné knew, and by looking at his comrades he could tell they were all in various states of alertness. His squad having been in the middle of a sleep cycle, the Major who came to get him had to shake him awake and fend off his weary-minded blows and curses. A few other Sangheili had the same look about them, while others must have just fallen asleep or had been on the verge of waking up already; yet the majority was wide awake and alert. Shaking the cobwebs from his mind he counted twenty-five other cadets present.

With dismay he realized he didn’t recognize any of them.

The Major began pacing back and forth along the line of Elite Juniors. “You have been selected for an honorable task,” he began, turning his head so he could look each one in the eyes as he spoke. “You have been chosen, neither because you are the best of your squadrons nor because you are fantastically good at combat. In order to receive this assignment, you must show proficiency, certainly, but also amiable qualities.” Oriné noted the distaste in the Major’s tone but gave no sign; he had become better at hiding his internal thoughts and feelings.

“Your assignment is an escort duty, but it is very important and shall tell much about your prowess with dignitaries. Each of you will be assigned to be the escort of a vestar as she visits, and after she completes her week-long work here, you will together travel back to High Charity and you will assist her in whatever endeavors she may ask of you for the period of one additional week.” A vestar, Oriné recalled, was a young priestess-in-training; a strike of excitement touched his heart as he thought that, perhaps, he would get to see his twin sister again. He had not laid eyes upon his family since his departure from Sanghelios.

The Major ceased his pacing at the exact middle of the line; Oriné was only a few Sangheili to the left. “You are expected to be kind and courteous, as these are the future clerics of the Covenant.” He resumed his pace, outlining behavior protocols and resulting punishments for subsequent violations. Oriné could not ignore his fantasy: meeting his sister again, being able to show her around and demonstrate his skills, just spending time with her again...

After he finished his explanation, the elder Sangheili marched over to one of the large doors and keyed it open, allowing twenty-six young Sangheili females to enter the hallway. They congregated in a tight group, not in any sort of formation; while his companions snorted in disdain Oriné’s eyes rapidly darted over the group, searching for his sister. He couldn’t see her.

Foolish, he chided himself. Of course Fulsa wouldn’t be here; why would she have been selected? His previous dream of showing off his prowess suddenly turned bitter, and he closed his eyes and mentally recited a forgiveness prayer.

The Elites were then assigned to their charges. “Oriné ‘Fulsamee,” the Major said when it was his turn, “this is your charge, Ekla.” He motioned towards a vestar fully a head shorter than the Elite Junior. She wore the draping priestess-in-training robes that Fulsa had been wearing when he returned from Jisako, but while they indeed looked humble they did nothing to hide the curving form of her body. Oriné maintained a look of stoic composure.

The Major leaned in close. “Take especially good care of her,” he hissed in his ear, and then retreated, assigning the next cadet. Wondering what he meant by that, Oriné took a step forward and bowed respectfully.

“I am Oriné ‘Fulsamee, Elite Junior Rank Two,” he said, looking up at his charge. Her skin was soft and looked supple, not at all like the hardened, leathery hides of all the Sangheili in Institution. Then again, she was a female. They had no place among warriors; they were too beautiful and fragile to risk damaging through combat.

A look of stolid amusement crossed her face. She gave her own half-bow in response. “I am Ekla. It is nice to meet you, Oriné ‘Fulsamee.” He righted himself, and an awkward pause ensued.

“Where...” he started, stopped, and then reconsidered: “Where would you like to go, priestess?”

She smiled, though it lacked mirth. “I am not yet a priestess, warrior, only a vestar. I have not earned that honor yet.”

Oriné chuckled. “Nor am I a warrior.”

“To answer your question,” she hummed, placing a long slender finger on the tip of one mandible, “while I am weary from my journey I would very much love something to eat before I retire.”

“As you wish.” The Elite Junior nodded and led Ekla out of the hallway and towards the mess hall. The trip was mostly quiet and uneventful except for when the vestar asked questions about her new surroundings; Oriné answered in a manner she hoped would find satisfactory, yet their conversations always fell short.

When they did arrive, Oriné was only marginally surprised to find the mess hall still busy. He knew that they were open every hour of every day, but had never experienced it; at this time his unit was supposed to be in its sleep cycle.

What shall I do? He wondered with a fleeting sense of dread. How will I conduct my studies and play escort to Ekla? Eventually he decided that it would have to work out one way or another; it was beyond his power to try and influence it. Instead he outlined the chefs’ somewhat limited selection of foodstuffs, letting the vestar choose her own meal. As they sat down at an empty table, Oriné tried again to make small talk.

“How was your trip over here?” he asked.

Ekla put down her plate. “Boring and slow,” she said. “We took the ship Destitute Conquest from High Charity, and—”

“Wait,” Oriné cut in. It was incredibly rude to interrupt a priestess, but he had to know. “Are you sure it was the Destitute Conquest?”

“Yes,” she replied guardedly.

“That used to be my father’s command! Well, it was until he retired.”

“Really?” she asked; unexpectedly she seemed genuinely interested. “Your father was a Ship Master for the armada?”

“A Ship Commander, really, but because of the Ship Master’s alcohol problems he ended up commanding the ship more often than not. He commanded it for the battle above the Jiralhanae home world.”

She smiled and listened now to his stories about his father, and he noticed that for the first time there actually seemed to be warmth coming from her. He hadn’t been sure what she had felt earlier, but now he was certain that he had captured her attention. So she likes combat, then? How unusual for a priestess.

Halfway through a story about one of their father-son duels a Jiralhanae walked by, roughly jostling Oriné’s seat. He turned and scowled but resumed his story, unwilling to allow a hairy beast to interrupt him. The Brute, however, merely circled around the table and delivered a strong kick to the bench Ekla had seated herself on. The shift was great enough to throw her off, though she regained her footing before falling to the floor.

These actions had been intended to push around the two Sangheili for the stories about the Brutes’ subjugation into the Covenant; however, while Jiralhanae society allowed the inclusion of females in all physical trials, in Sangheili society the men protected the women from any sort of harm. Thus the Brute in question was quite surprised to find himself knocked to the ground hardly a full second after he had knocked the vestar from her seat. He barked in alarm, alerting all nearby Jiralhanae to his plight.

Oriné realized his mistake: there were several Brutes nearby, now advancing towards him, and most of the Elites present were enough of a distance off to hardly notice the commotion. His first instinct was to fight his way out of the crowd, but he suddenly remembered Ekla. Upon turning to her, he saw that she was glancing around, nervousness with a tint of fear playing across her delicate features.

He had to protect her.

The first Brute charged forward; Oriné simply side-stepped and swung out his own leg, tripping up the beast and sending it skidding into several nearby tables and creating quite a din. Another two advanced, slightly more cautious, and swung at him. The Sangheili ducked and weaved between their blows, seizing one’s arm as it passed within an inch of his head and using the momentum to flip it over his shoulder. While he did that, though, the other got behind him and grabbed him by the shoulders, holding him still except for his feet. More came forward, the first two fended off by his legs, but a third got through and delivered a rough punch to Oriné’s gut.

The pain blossomed in his vision as another fist connected with his torso, and Oriné realized that he had gotten in over his head. Honor must be defended, but this is a ridiculously futile gesture. Spots swam in his vision as he was released; he tumbled to his knees before a foot connected with his sternum and sent him sliding. When he came to a stop, he expected more beatings while he was prone, yet they never arrived. After a moment several shouts and crashes rang through his head; forcing himself up onto his elbows he saw several of his emerald-armored comrades engaging his attackers in hand-to-hand combat.

A moment later, one of them ran to him after smashing a Jiralhanae in the face with his elbow, the vestar following closely behind. They knelt by Oriné’s side and inspected his wounds; after determining him not to be too serious they both lifted him up by his shoulders and carried him out of the mess hall into the hallway.

“I am able to walk,” he finally managed, and waved them away. He staggered a bit but found his balance. He nodded his thanks to the Elite Junior, whom a moment later turned and went back inside to help finish off the Brute troublemakers.

The wounded Sangheili turned to his charge. “I hope I have not ruined the experience of Institution for you, priestess.”

“I rather enjoyed it, warrior,” she returned slyly and put a hand on his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze.

——

The arrangements had been made, Oriné learned, for himself to continue his studies while learning how to protect the vestar. It gradually became known to him the reason for this charge: he was being taught how to protect a vital objective, though after the fiasco with the Brutes it had occasionally turned to physical protection as well. The Jiralhanae did not forget their grudges, nor did they ever wish to settle them honorably.

Oriné, however, stayed on top of things: his rather personal encounter had taught him a great deal. Even if they weren’t clever, the Brutes could overpower him in a straight-on fight if he wasn’t careful. In all combat exercises he now exerted prudence, commanding his Grunts conservatively. His fistfights when not in combat practice escalated as well, and he had to admit to himself that he often sought them out. Ekla had asked if he would be disciplined for his actions.

“No,” he had replied, “this is Institution. They encourage fighting; it builds character and camaraderie.” It did not, however, build camaraderie. The Sangheili who were involved in the fistfights did indeed feel close during the fight, but it created a rift between themselves and the Jiralhanae. One of the Minors who served at Institution told Oriné one day that even when he had been attending the fights were common.

That at least gave the Elite Junior some peace of mind.

Regardless, it so turned out that the vestar had little to do at Institution: her group had been selected to come and inspect the grounds, making sure that it had not become a vile pit of heresy. When Oriné pointed out that the space station had a full order of the Coven dedicated to its spiritual upkeep, he received a venomous look for his astuteness.

So it came down, often, to Oriné having an audience during combat exercises. An observation deck was placed high in the Halls, usually reserved for supervisors but they allowed the young priestess in out of respect and amusement. Though he knew it would only lead to more trouble he often performed showy maneuvers in vehicle training and became slightly bolder during infantry practice; he outright showed off in dueling to the point that his squad mates complained of his constant flourishes and dramatic finishes. Olah ‘Seroumee was always there to reeducate him in humility whenever he got well and truly out of hand.

During Knowledge lectures Ekla excused herself, finding them to be boring. That was fine by Oriné, who allowed himself to become immersed in the study of the humans. Once Magister ‘Alsakee noted his determination and openly questioned him about it; without missing a beat, the Elite Junior replied that it was proven that knowing one’s enemy could expose a quick path to victory. The Magister had replied with a kind smile.

“Oriné,” he said afterwards, ushering the Sangheili aside while his squad mates filed out, “you have shown amazing prowess at learning details about other races, especially the humans. Have you ever considered applying your skill to the Forerunner and becoming one of the Elite Inquisitors?” The Inquisitors were a special branch of the Covenant armed forces, dropped onto planets that held Forerunner complexes to discern their meaning, decode any glyphic messages, and retrieve any artifacts they found. More often than not they were deployed on the front lines on human worlds, advancing towards known Forerunner structures; that way they were sure to be able to finish their job sooner.

The thought did not excite the Elite at all. Long nights spent hunkered over a piece of stone, trying to unlock some sort of hidden meaning, did not appeal to him. He dreamed of spending his nights resting for days full of combat, warfare, and glory. “I have, Magister; but the Forerunner have blessed me with a soldier’s heart, and though my mind is scholarly I must follow the core of my being, even into battle.” ‘Alsakee clicked his mandibles, the equivalent of a shrug, and said his farewell. They did not speak on the matter again.

In Faith, however, Ekla soared. She gained favor among the Lesser Prophets instructing Squadron Twenty-two and for that received scorn from Oriné’s brothers-in-arms. She herself often picked students at random and demanded from them some obscure piece of information or line of scripture; if they could not summon it from memory they were reprimanded, something that seemed to bring the young vestar no end of amusement.

“It is a good thing your woman does not sleep among us,” one of the other cadets growled to Oriné one day, “otherwise we might be tempted to throttle her in her sleep.”

Oriné had been quick to point out that he and Ekla were not courting, but the observation about arrangements had been true enough. As she was a vestar, a dignitary, and a female, she had been forbidden from even going near the sleeping quarters of the warriors-in-training. Such would be seen as not only a blasphemy but also as a definite hazard. Sleeping quarters were a place of rough-and-tumble males, not the lithe and beautiful females expected to spend their days in glory. Rather she was given a special room in the Visitors’ Dormitory, not a stone’s throw from where the Lesser Prophets themselves slept. Off of her main chamber was a small washroom, a bathing pool, a closet for her priestly garments, and a smaller apartment where her escort was to sleep so he would always be nearby. At first it was mandated that the door between remain shut, but Ekla insisted on leaving it open.

“So that, should I cry out in the night, Oriné can come right to my side,” she had explained to the Prophets with a sly grin.

For the first few mornings meals had been brought to Ekla’s chambers, but she dismissed them and ate in the cafeteria instead. She liked to listen to the stories of combat and battlefield prowess, laughing at the jokes regarding weapons, instructors, and Jiralhanae. At first the Sangheili were uneasy, but when she expressed her preference of soldiers and combat to life in the convent they seemed to welcome her to their tables.

——

The week ended.

Oriné stood at parade rest in one of Institution’s shuttle bays, hands clasped behind the small of his back, eyes staring front. The Phantom shuttle had just entered the bay and was making landing preparations. His eyes watched the craft adjust itself and settle to the floor, the rear hatch sliding open to allow access. All around were the other vestars and Elite Juniors who had been given the same assignment.

At his side was Ekla, considerably less rigid. She touched his elbow lightly and smiled; he glanced down and twitched a mandible, the closest thing to a smile he could manage there. They had grown close over a week of constant exposure to each other; that had been the expected result, that or detestation. Both results were apparent in the relationship between each vestar and Elite, but no signs could be displayed. The next level up housed Sangheili officers watching and judging the Elite Juniors’ performances.

From within the shuttle came an Elite Minor. He glanced around, doing a head-count in his head, and then nodded. “You may now board,” he called out. The crowd moved forward, squeezing into the Phantom. Within was a slight modification: there were padded chairs fastened to the wall for the vestars to sit in; next to them were magnetic locks for the Elite Juniors. Each took his place beside his charge.

The Elite Minor walked back in and crossed the troop bay. “We will be leaving immediately for the Destitute Conquest, which will take us to High Charity.” He paused at the door to the cockpit and glanced over his shoulder, a smirk growing across his mandibles. “Be on your best behavior, now.” With that he vanished into the forward section.

Ekla lightly poked him in the arm, and he turned and smiled.

Description
Chapter 5: Rank Two

Oriné ‘Fulsamee inhaled deeply, allowing the fumes of the incense to fill his lungs. He kneeled before the altar at the Temple, one of the smaller, private ones for personal communion with the Gods. The smoke made his eyelids heavy and he allowed them to fall shut: elimination of the visual world helped the experience.

A little more than a year he had been here at Institution, long enough for his squad to be promoted to Rank Two. It had happened, literally, overnight roughly a month ago; when they awoke they were directed to more difficult training sessions and more intense studies. They were quizzed more, tested more, tried more; battles were no longer conducted within the squad but always against other squads, spot-examinations by the Lesser Prophets done in groups, knowledge expected to be recalled immediately and without pause.

The Elite Junior sighed out the smoke. It was incredibly difficult, but these meditation sessions helped him relax. The heaviness of the fumes filled his being and weighed him down physically yet allowed his mind to soar. It was as if he departed this plane entirely and was given his first view of the Great Journey; truly a worthy experience. He allowed his eyelids to sag closed and the smoke to take him away.

A chime rang in his ear, and he casually allowed his mind to pull itself away from the relaxing environment of the temple. He reached a hand up and brushed a finger over one of the acknowledgement pads, allowing the transmission through: “Elite Junior Oriné ‘Fulsamee,” it began. Oriné moved his mandibles in a perfect mimicry of the speech, “First Battalion, Reverent Company, Squadron Twenty-two; your squadron will be conducting a combat exercise in the Hall of Glory shortly.”

He rose off his knees, rotating the joints to make sure he hadn’t accidentally knotted a muscle. Once he was content he strode out of the temple and into the courtyard. Decorative vegetation had been planted around, carefully tended to so the path was clear but at a whim he could reach out and pick a blossom from a bush. He refrained, however, and contented himself just finding the gravity lift. As he approached he brought up his wrist and programmed his destination before he stepped into the shaft of light; once before he had forgotten this crucial step, and the resulting collision had put himself and the unfortunate passer-by in the infirmary for a week.

The gravity lift deposited him on the proper floor and he maneuvered his way to the Hall of Glory. There were sixteen such halls in these levels, each supporting a massive combat arena. When he had been Rank Three, small rooms were given to the cadets in order to conduct exercises within their own squad; now much larger ones were needed for the much larger battles that took place.

Stepping into the Hall, Oriné recalled immediately that Glory was for forest terrain battles. The trees towered over a floor covered in dead and decaying plant life from which smaller shrubs grew. The battle hadn’t started yet, so he traipsed through the arena and searched for his squadron.

They had collected themselves in the center clearing, twenty-five already there. Oriné stood and conversed in low tones with them until the remainder arrived, followed by an Elite Major. The Sangheili present dimly remembered him from their first day.

“Today’s exercise is of the greatest importance,” the Major said to the assembled cadets. “You will prove your worth working with the other races; scattered throughout this forest are twenty Grunt clutches and two Hunter pairs. If you recover them, you may lead them; if your opponents recover them, they shall belong to them.” There was a sense of conviction behind the Major’s words, one that betrayed a deeper meaning; Oriné couldn’t decipher the message behind it.

He reviewed their armaments next: standard training rifles and pistols, as well as training grenades. The firearms were familiar by now, Oriné having toted them through countless training exercises and learned all their quirks. He had even trained with their genuine counterparts at the firing range. However, the grenades were something he rarely used. They could stick to opponents, but Oriné had hardly utilized them: they made him uneasy. On the battlefield, if one held on to a grenade for too long it would fuse to one’s hand and detonate. He would rather never touch them.

The Major exited the arena, and shortly thereafter the exercise began. Olah ‘Seroumee acted quickly, not wishing to fall behind their opponents, whoever they might be. “First and fourth lances, I want you to move forward until you come into contact with the enemy, and from there establish our front line.” Those Elites saluted and took off at a brisk jog towards the other side of the Hall where their opponents would have started. “Second lance, you are to move backwards and secure our rear and flanks. See if perhaps the good Major left a few tricks for us to take advantage of.” They disappeared as well. “Fifth lance, sweep through our territories and look for those Grunt clutches and Hunter pairs. We’ll need their assistance.”

Only the third lance, of which Oriné was a part, was left behind. “What of us, Olah?” he asked. The squadron leader glanced back at him.

“We shall make a pre-emptive strike against our opponents, find out what we are facing,” he replied, drawing his rifle. “We will push past the first and fourth lances and conduct reconnaissance.” The others all nodded and took up their own weapons, sprinting forward as their commander did so. They nimbly bounded between the trunks of the trees, signaling to the other lances as they passed, and went onward. Quickly, however, they switched tactics and favored silence over speed; they did not know when they would encounter their enemy. They crouched low to the ground, their green armor giving them a slight semblance of camouflage in the foliage of the artificial forest. When it came time for them to actually be in battle against the humans, their armor would have active camouflage units in them. Turning them on would deactivate their shields (which they would have as well) but would lend them an extra air of stealth.

After what seemed like a full day of sneaking they heard sounds up ahead. All ten Elites froze; Olah waved Oriné and another forward. “Scout them and see what resources they have,” he whispered to them. They nodded and continued forward. Reaching up and carefully parting the branches of a bush the pair found themselves gazing directly into the face of their enemy. It was simian with massive tusks, a heavy brow, and small eyes that glared at them.

For a moment they stared dumbfounded at each other, but then the Brute smiled at them. “Have you forgotten how to scream, hatchling?” it chided. In response, Oriné smoothly raised his rifle and held down the trigger. The weapon bucked and sounded, but no plasma genuinely burst forth; the Brute, however, spasmed and fell back, his training harness detecting the impacts and delivering the proper neural response. He did not even cry out as he tumbled back and landed in the dirt. As his form fell away, however, the pair could see that several of the beast’s comrades had been watching their scout.

“Fire!” one of the Jiralhanae warriors cried, and they all raised their own training rifles. Oriné pushed his companion down and then went prone himself; the sound of return fire filled his ears, but his armor wasn’t registering any hits.

“Olah!” he called back, raising his head enough to be able to turn his neck. “We’ve found them! They’re Brutes!” He could not hear a response, but from the distant shouts from the enemy they had decided to close the distance. Oriné and his companion quickly rose and dashed back to where Olah was still waiting.

The squadron commander glanced them over. “Any damage?”

“We took out one of them, but the rest are still there and they’re coming.”

“Lay a trap!” Olah called out, motioning for all the Elites to go prone in the low shrubs. “Hold until they approach and then use grenades to thin their ranks. Throw them high so the trajectory will make them think we’re attacking from elsewhere.” They quickly set about setting up the trap, burying themselves as much as they could in the low brush and hoping their armor color would assist their camouflage attempts. In their hearts the Elites felt no honor in this action, in not meeting their opponent head-on; however, in their minds they knew this was much wiser.

Heavy footfalls, gunfire, and shouting voices heralded their opponents’ arrival. The brush tore away as several Jiralhanae rushed through and bounded at them; none seemed to notice the warriors lying in wait. As their enemies closed the distance, the Elites unhooked grenades from their belts, gave them a squeeze, and sent them flying. The orbs pulsed blue and landed on or among the opposing forces, flaring brilliant sapphire as they “detonated” and almost all of the Brutes fell to the ground, twitching or completely still. The few that survived were quickly gunned down as Sangheili leaped up from cover.

Oriné and Olah inspected the fallen Brutes, policing rifles and grenades. “Everyone takes a spare,” the commander ordered. “We don’t know if we should need them soon.” As they staked out their claims, as well as trophies from the combat, Olah raised a hand to his helmet and activated the team radio line.

“Attention all lances,” he said firmly, “we have identified our opponents as the Jiralhanae. Use caution when engaging. Fifth lance, what news of our allies?”

“Affirmative,” one of the Elites replied. “We have located two Grunt clutches, and they are leading us to where they believe a Hunter pair to be. According to them, there are a total of two pairs and three clutches.”

“Seize that pair and we’ll have the advantage we need in order to end this quickly,” Olah said, and then turned his attention back to his own lance. “We will fall back to where first and fourth lances are forming the front line and hold there. Once we get reinforced by the other lances and our new allies, we will press forward and wipe out these Brutes.

“No ape shall stand in a Sangheili’s way.”

——

Bruised, Yarna ‘Orgalmee eased himself onto the bench in the mess hall area. Rtas ‘Vadumee, sitting across from him, looked up and cocked his head quizzically. The other cadet could only smile sheepishly.

“We had our first engagement with the Jiralhanae today,” he said.

Rtas guffawed, setting his plate of kashalai down. “Ah yes, my squadron had its own encounter a week ago. Fierce warriors; not very bright, but determined.”

Yarna looked at his own food: a “fruit platter,” though the term seemed inaccurate. “Be careful, friend, you almost sound like you respect them.”

“The day a walking carpet can best a Sangheili is the day I walk out of the Covenant,” he replied, once again taking up his meal. He titled his head back and poured the roasted, honeyed worms down his gullet. “How did you fare?” The question thankfully came after he finished.

“As a unit, we did very well. We made the first move and were able to secure two Grunt clutches and the Hunter pair. The Brutes didn’t manage to find any Grunts until far too late.”

“And you personally?”

Yarna picked up a piece of fruit and gave it a tentative sniff. “I was killed towards the end. I became too bold and tried to lead a few Grunts in a charge at what I thought was a weakened part of their line. They struck me with a grenade and killed my entire group.” He tore off a bit and ate it with caution. “One of the Hunters avenged me, though.”

Rtas had another go at his kashalai. “They are noble and honorable... though I would never wish to spend time alone with one.”

Yarna nodded, and then glanced around, having just noticed something for the first time. Present in the mess hall were many Sangheili, Unggoy, and Jiralhanae, but... “Why do the Lekgolo not eat with us?”

His companion frowned at him. “The chefs do not cater to their preferred nourishment.”

“What, they cannot catch it?”

“No. The Lekgolo do not eat meat.”

Yarna blanched; Rtas took amusement at the other’s ignorance. “You know they are a colony of eels, correct? Good. Now these eels are herbivores, and even though they have bonded together to create a humanoid form, they still have the needs of individuals. To eat, they dispose of their armor and slither along the grass in the Temple areas, like so.” He put his palm half a centimeter over the surface of the table and moved it back and forth to emphasize his point. “When they do this, the eels are grazing on the grass. They rotate as they do this so all eels on the surface have the opportunity to eat; eels in the middle also push their way to the outside for nourishment.” He smiled at some memory. “The grazing of Lekgolo is truly an impressive sight; perhaps some day you will be able to witness it yourself.”

“Oh,” Yarna said, and trailed off. He glared at his food; he suspected it was tainted. “I will say this, though; their teamwork is impeccable. Though the death of a Bond Brother would be troubling, as long as both are alive I see no stopping the carnage.” Another thought stopped his praise. “Tell me: do they mate?”

“Of course.”

“Oh. I have never seen a Lekgolo female.”

“There are none. The Lekgolo are hermaphroditic, their Bond Brothers essentially becoming their mates and... where are you going?”

That was too much. Yarna excused himself and tossed his food in a trash container, plate and all.

——

Yarna settled himself onto his knees in the lecture room. Magister ‘Alsakee strode to the front, cleared his throat, and began warming up the hologram projector.

“Today,” he started, fiddling with the controls, “we discuss the mating habits of the Unggoy, Yanme’e, and Lekgolo.”

Suddenly Yarna wished the Brute had killed him for real.

——

Several Elite Juniors stood at fast attention in the massive hallway just outside one of the shuttle bays. It was incredibly early, Oriné knew, and by looking at his comrades he could tell they were all in various states of alertness. His squad having been in the middle of a sleep cycle, the Major who came to get him had to shake him awake and fend off his weary-minded blows and curses. A few other Sangheili had the same look about them, while others must have just fallen asleep or had been on the verge of waking up already; yet the majority was wide awake and alert. Shaking the cobwebs from his mind he counted twenty-five other cadets present.

With dismay he realized he didn’t recognize any of them.

The Major began pacing back and forth along the line of Elite Juniors. “You have been selected for an honorable task,” he began, turning his head so he could look each one in the eyes as he spoke. “You have been chosen, neither because you are the best of your squadrons nor because you are fantastically good at combat. In order to receive this assignment, you must show proficiency, certainly, but also amiable qualities.” Oriné noted the distaste in the Major’s tone but gave no sign; he had become better at hiding his internal thoughts and feelings.

“Your assignment is an escort duty, but it is very important and shall tell much about your prowess with dignitaries. Each of you will be assigned to be the escort of a vestar as she visits, and after she completes her week-long work here, you will together travel back to High Charity and you will assist her in whatever endeavors she may ask of you for the period of one additional week.” A vestar, Oriné recalled, was a young priestess-in-training; a strike of excitement touched his heart as he thought that, perhaps, he would get to see his twin sister again. He had not laid eyes upon his family since his departure from Sanghelios.

The Major ceased his pacing at the exact middle of the line; Oriné was only a few Sangheili to the left. “You are expected to be kind and courteous, as these are the future clerics of the Covenant.” He resumed his pace, outlining behavior protocols and resulting punishments for subsequent violations. Oriné could not ignore his fantasy: meeting his sister again, being able to show her around and demonstrate his skills, just spending time with her again...

After he finished his explanation, the elder Sangheili marched over to one of the large doors and keyed it open, allowing twenty-six young Sangheili females to enter the hallway. They congregated in a tight group, not in any sort of formation; while his companions snorted in disdain Oriné’s eyes rapidly darted over the group, searching for his sister. He couldn’t see her.

Foolish, he chided himself. Of course Fulsa wouldn’t be here; why would she have been selected? His previous dream of showing off his prowess suddenly turned bitter, and he closed his eyes and mentally recited a forgiveness prayer.

The Elites were then assigned to their charges. “Oriné ‘Fulsamee,” the Major said when it was his turn, “this is your charge, Ekla.” He motioned towards a vestar fully a head shorter than the Elite Junior. She wore the draping priestess-in-training robes that Fulsa had been wearing when he returned from Jisako, but while they indeed looked humble they did nothing to hide the curving form of her body. Oriné maintained a look of stoic composure.

The Major leaned in close. “Take especially good care of her,” he hissed in his ear, and then retreated, assigning the next cadet. Wondering what he meant by that, Oriné took a step forward and bowed respectfully.

“I am Oriné ‘Fulsamee, Elite Junior Rank Two,” he said, looking up at his charge. Her skin was soft and looked supple, not at all like the hardened, leathery hides of all the Sangheili in Institution. Then again, she was a female. They had no place among warriors; they were too beautiful and fragile to risk damaging through combat.

A look of stolid amusement crossed her face. She gave her own half-bow in response. “I am Ekla. It is nice to meet you, Oriné ‘Fulsamee.” He righted himself, and an awkward pause ensued.

“Where...” he started, stopped, and then reconsidered: “Where would you like to go, priestess?”

She smiled, though it lacked mirth. “I am not yet a priestess, warrior, only a vestar. I have not earned that honor yet.”

Oriné chuckled. “Nor am I a warrior.”

“To answer your question,” she hummed, placing a long slender finger on the tip of one mandible, “while I am weary from my journey I would very much love something to eat before I retire.”

“As you wish.” The Elite Junior nodded and led Ekla out of the hallway and towards the mess hall. The trip was mostly quiet and uneventful except for when the vestar asked questions about her new surroundings; Oriné answered in a manner she hoped would find satisfactory, yet their conversations always fell short.

When they did arrive, Oriné was only marginally surprised to find the mess hall still busy. He knew that they were open every hour of every day, but had never experienced it; at this time his unit was supposed to be in its sleep cycle.

What shall I do? He wondered with a fleeting sense of dread. How will I conduct my studies and play escort to Ekla? Eventually he decided that it would have to work out one way or another; it was beyond his power to try and influence it. Instead he outlined the chefs’ somewhat limited selection of foodstuffs, letting the vestar choose her own meal. As they sat down at an empty table, Oriné tried again to make small talk.

“How was your trip over here?” he asked.

Ekla put down her plate. “Boring and slow,” she said. “We took the ship Destitute Conquest from High Charity, and—”

“Wait,” Oriné cut in. It was incredibly rude to interrupt a priestess, but he had to know. “Are you sure it was the Destitute Conquest?”

“Yes,” she replied guardedly.

“That used to be my father’s command! Well, it was until he retired.”

“Really?” she asked; unexpectedly she seemed genuinely interested. “Your father was a Ship Master for the armada?”

“A Ship Commander, really, but because of the Ship Master’s alcohol problems he ended up commanding the ship more often than not. He commanded it for the battle above the Jiralhanae home world.”

She smiled and listened now to his stories about his father, and he noticed that for the first time there actually seemed to be warmth coming from her. He hadn’t been sure what she had felt earlier, but now he was certain that he had captured her attention. So she likes combat, then? How unusual for a priestess.

Halfway through a story about one of their father-son duels a Jiralhanae walked by, roughly jostling Oriné’s seat. He turned and scowled but resumed his story, unwilling to allow a hairy beast to interrupt him. The Brute, however, merely circled around the table and delivered a strong kick to the bench Ekla had seated herself on. The shift was great enough to throw her off, though she regained her footing before falling to the floor.

These actions had been intended to push around the two Sangheili for the stories about the Brutes’ subjugation into the Covenant; however, while Jiralhanae society allowed the inclusion of females in all physical trials, in Sangheili society the men protected the women from any sort of harm. Thus the Brute in question was quite surprised to find himself knocked to the ground hardly a full second after he had knocked the vestar from her seat. He barked in alarm, alerting all nearby Jiralhanae to his plight.

Oriné realized his mistake: there were several Brutes nearby, now advancing towards him, and most of the Elites present were enough of a distance off to hardly notice the commotion. His first instinct was to fight his way out of the crowd, but he suddenly remembered Ekla. Upon turning to her, he saw that she was glancing around, nervousness with a tint of fear playing across her delicate features.

He had to protect her.

The first Brute charged forward; Oriné simply side-stepped and swung out his own leg, tripping up the beast and sending it skidding into several nearby tables and creating quite a din. Another two advanced, slightly more cautious, and swung at him. The Sangheili ducked and weaved between their blows, seizing one’s arm as it passed within an inch of his head and using the momentum to flip it over his shoulder. While he did that, though, the other got behind him and grabbed him by the shoulders, holding him still except for his feet. More came forward, the first two fended off by his legs, but a third got through and delivered a rough punch to Oriné’s gut.

The pain blossomed in his vision as another fist connected with his torso, and Oriné realized that he had gotten in over his head. Honor must be defended, but this is a ridiculously futile gesture. Spots swam in his vision as he was released; he tumbled to his knees before a foot connected with his sternum and sent him sliding. When he came to a stop, he expected more beatings while he was prone, yet they never arrived. After a moment several shouts and crashes rang through his head; forcing himself up onto his elbows he saw several of his emerald-armored comrades engaging his attackers in hand-to-hand combat.

A moment later, one of them ran to him after smashing a Jiralhanae in the face with his elbow, the vestar following closely behind. They knelt by Oriné’s side and inspected his wounds; after determining him not to be too serious they both lifted him up by his shoulders and carried him out of the mess hall into the hallway.

“I am able to walk,” he finally managed, and waved them away. He staggered a bit but found his balance. He nodded his thanks to the Elite Junior, whom a moment later turned and went back inside to help finish off the Brute troublemakers.

The wounded Sangheili turned to his charge. “I hope I have not ruined the experience of Institution for you, priestess.”

“I rather enjoyed it, warrior,” she returned slyly and put a hand on his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze.

——

The arrangements had been made, Oriné learned, for himself to continue his studies while learning how to protect the vestar. It gradually became known to him the reason for this charge: he was being taught how to protect a vital objective, though after the fiasco with the Brutes it had occasionally turned to physical protection as well. The Jiralhanae did not forget their grudges, nor did they ever wish to settle them honorably.

Oriné, however, stayed on top of things: his rather personal encounter had taught him a great deal. Even if they weren’t clever, the Brutes could overpower him in a straight-on fight if he wasn’t careful. In all combat exercises he now exerted prudence, commanding his Grunts conservatively. His fistfights when not in combat practice escalated as well, and he had to admit to himself that he often sought them out. Ekla had asked if he would be disciplined for his actions.

“No,” he had replied, “this is Institution. They encourage fighting; it builds character and camaraderie.” It did not, however, build camaraderie. The Sangheili who were involved in the fistfights did indeed feel close during the fight, but it created a rift between themselves and the Jiralhanae. One of the Minors who served at Institution told Oriné one day that even when he had been attending the fights were common.

That at least gave the Elite Junior some peace of mind.

Regardless, it so turned out that the vestar had little to do at Institution: her group had been selected to come and inspect the grounds, making sure that it had not become a vile pit of heresy. When Oriné pointed out that the space station had a full order of the Coven dedicated to its spiritual upkeep, he received a venomous look for his astuteness.

So it came down, often, to Oriné having an audience during combat exercises. An observation deck was placed high in the Halls, usually reserved for supervisors but they allowed the young priestess in out of respect and amusement. Though he knew it would only lead to more trouble he often performed showy maneuvers in vehicle training and became slightly bolder during infantry practice; he outright showed off in dueling to the point that his squad mates complained of his constant flourishes and dramatic finishes. Olah ‘Seroumee was always there to reeducate him in humility whenever he got well and truly out of hand.

During Knowledge lectures Ekla excused herself, finding them to be boring. That was fine by Oriné, who allowed himself to become immersed in the study of the humans. Once Magister ‘Alsakee noted his determination and openly questioned him about it; without missing a beat, the Elite Junior replied that it was proven that knowing one’s enemy could expose a quick path to victory. The Magister had replied with a kind smile.

“Oriné,” he said afterwards, ushering the Sangheili aside while his squad mates filed out, “you have shown amazing prowess at learning details about other races, especially the humans. Have you ever considered applying your skill to the Forerunner and becoming one of the Elite Inquisitors?” The Inquisitors were a special branch of the Covenant armed forces, dropped onto planets that held Forerunner complexes to discern their meaning, decode any glyphic messages, and retrieve any artifacts they found. More often than not they were deployed on the front lines on human worlds, advancing towards known Forerunner structures; that way they were sure to be able to finish their job sooner.

The thought did not excite the Elite at all. Long nights spent hunkered over a piece of stone, trying to unlock some sort of hidden meaning, did not appeal to him. He dreamed of spending his nights resting for days full of combat, warfare, and glory. “I have, Magister; but the Forerunner have blessed me with a soldier’s heart, and though my mind is scholarly I must follow the core of my being, even into battle.” ‘Alsakee clicked his mandibles, the equivalent of a shrug, and said his farewell. They did not speak on the matter again.

In Faith, however, Ekla soared. She gained favor among the Lesser Prophets instructing Squadron Twenty-two and for that received scorn from Oriné’s brothers-in-arms. She herself often picked students at random and demanded from them some obscure piece of information or line of scripture; if they could not summon it from memory they were reprimanded, something that seemed to bring the young vestar no end of amusement.

“It is a good thing your woman does not sleep among us,” one of the other cadets growled to Oriné one day, “otherwise we might be tempted to throttle her in her sleep.”

Oriné had been quick to point out that he and Ekla were not courting, but the observation about arrangements had been true enough. As she was a vestar, a dignitary, and a female, she had been forbidden from even going near the sleeping quarters of the warriors-in-training. Such would be seen as not only a blasphemy but also as a definite hazard. Sleeping quarters were a place of rough-and-tumble males, not the lithe and beautiful females expected to spend their days in glory. Rather she was given a special room in the Visitors’ Dormitory, not a stone’s throw from where the Lesser Prophets themselves slept. Off of her main chamber was a small washroom, a bathing pool, a closet for her priestly garments, and a smaller apartment where her escort was to sleep so he would always be nearby. At first it was mandated that the door between remain shut, but Ekla insisted on leaving it open.

“So that, should I cry out in the night, Oriné can come right to my side,” she had explained to the Prophets with a sly grin.

For the first few mornings meals had been brought to Ekla’s chambers, but she dismissed them and ate in the cafeteria instead. She liked to listen to the stories of combat and battlefield prowess, laughing at the jokes regarding weapons, instructors, and Jiralhanae. At first the Sangheili were uneasy, but when she expressed her preference of soldiers and combat to life in the convent they seemed to welcome her to their tables.

——

The week ended.

Oriné stood at parade rest in one of Institution’s shuttle bays, hands clasped behind the small of his back, eyes staring front. The Phantom shuttle had just entered the bay and was making landing preparations. His eyes watched the craft adjust itself and settle to the floor, the rear hatch sliding open to allow access. All around were the other vestars and Elite Juniors who had been given the same assignment.

At his side was Ekla, considerably less rigid. She touched his elbow lightly and smiled; he glanced down and twitched a mandible, the closest thing to a smile he could manage there. They had grown close over a week of constant exposure to each other; that had been the expected result, that or detestation. Both results were apparent in the relationship between each vestar and Elite, but no signs could be displayed. The next level up housed Sangheili officers watching and judging the Elite Juniors’ performances.

From within the shuttle came an Elite Minor. He glanced around, doing a head-count in his head, and then nodded. “You may now board,” he called out. The crowd moved forward, squeezing into the Phantom. Within was a slight modification: there were padded chairs fastened to the wall for the vestars to sit in; next to them were magnetic locks for the Elite Juniors. Each took his place beside his charge.

The Elite Minor walked back in and crossed the troop bay. “We will be leaving immediately for the Destitute Conquest, which will take us to High Charity.” He paused at the door to the cockpit and glanced over his shoulder, a smirk growing across his mandibles. “Be on your best behavior, now.” With that he vanished into the forward section.

Ekla lightly poked him in the arm, and he turned and smiled.